"All that is old and already formed can continue to live only if it allows within itself the conditions of a new beginning."
Now Batting for
Boston: Sisyphus StonePosted 8:51 p.m., July 3, 2004
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If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him?"
-- Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus
Little did I know when I forked over the $160 it cost me to buy the Major League Baseball Sports on Demand season package from the Time Warner Cable, that I would be putting my health and sanity at risk.
I laid that money down to keep an eye all summer long on the Red Sox, to become a full-fledged member of the Red Sox Nation, not just someone vicariously slurping up whatever highlight leftovers the producers at "Baseball Tonight" are generous enough to dribble down to those trapped outside that commonwealth's borders.
But here's my problem: The Boston Red Sox are killing me.
The Myth of Sisyphus
The futility, the frustration--nay, the agony--of being a BoSox fan is old news. The anxiety has even taken on various names over the years. There was Enos F*$!ing Slaughter in 1946, Bob F*$!ing Gibson in 1967, Ed F*$!ing Armbrister in 1975, Bucky F*$!ng Dent in 1978, Bill F*$!ing Buckner in 1986, and Aaron F*$!ing Boone in 2003. That's just a partial list.
There was also Babe F*$!ing Ruth.
How's this for an indignity? George Steinbrenner, the owner of the hated Yankees, remarked to the New York Post about that wrenching July 1 Red Sox game against the Yankees: "It was the most exciting game I have ever seen in any sport."
Maybe he's right. F*$! him.
To give The Boss his due, truly it was one of the greatest games I have ever watched. It featured a wreckless, beautiful, near suicidal play in the 12th inning by Derek Jeter, a play from which most players would have backed down. There was an equally amazing play in which Alex Rodriguez somehow made a perfect--I mean perfect--throw from third base on his knees that somehow looped with precision over Gabe Kapler's shoulder as he rushed to home plate, allowing the catcher Jorge Posada to make the easy tag.
There was even a 12th inning home run by Boston's Manny Ramirez that, one thought hopefully at the time, put the Yankees away. But not so. New York's John Flaherty--the only bat left on Joe Torre's bench who could hit for the hospitalized Jeter--smacked one over Ramirez's head in left field to score the final run and end the game.
(And why have so many of the greatest of baseball games involved the Red Sox? Why have they involved the Red Sox losing. Or, at most, passing a triumphant milestone on their way to inevitable defeat? But I digress.)
That awful game was followed up by a 12-inning July 2 game--which the Red Sox made us temporarily believe also was locked away in the win column--in which the Sox lost to Atlanta after Keith Foulke gave up a three-run homer.
It's as though all those manipulative gods of antiquity have resurfaced, but only after striking an agreement with the Supreme Diety to limit their machinations to Major League Baseball games involving the Boston Red Sox.
How else to explain the superhuman effort of one superstar shortstop, Derek Jeter, hurtling his body-yea, his face--into an empty stadium seat in order to make an insane, game-saving catch, while another superstar shortstop, Boston's Nomar Garciaparra, mopes in his own dugout, impatient for a game he refuses to play to end?
How else to explain the forces that apparently preordain that the Red Sox shall always compete, compete hard, show promise, occasionally demonstrate the inevitability of their ultimate triumph, only to have it all invariably snuffed out, as instantaneously and unceremoniously as some cigarette in a subway?
They talk of Ruth's curse. Of course there is a curse. The likes of Sisyphus don't occur in nature.
Please Sir, May I Have Another?
God help me, I've almost always loved the Red Sox. Not that it makes sense for me. I grew up in Wisconsin listening to Bob Eucker calling Brewers games. I distinctly recall him announcing Paul Molitor's first at bat, for instance. And I rooted for the Brew Crew. But even then, my excitement rose highest when I knew they were playing Boston. And my pulse quickened just a bit when the Euke would call out the name of my hero, Carl Yastrzemski.
(How much did I love Yaz? Well, consider: I didn't need to Google his name to know how to spell it. That's love.)
I've lived in Minnesota for more than 10 years now, and I root for the Twins, just as I rooted for the Padres when I lived in San Diego, but nothing has cured me of this Red Sox fixation. And now that I can watch them almost daily on TV, not just follow their travails in the newspaper, there is no filter for my fandom. Or for the pain.
That misery is expressed most effectively in the following passage by ESPN the Magazine columnist Bill Simmons, and now that I'm a regular viewer, that misery is not just something that resonates intellectually. I watched the game to which he refers front to back. His agony spears the very flesh.
NOBODY loses games like this. Nobody. We're the Joe Frazier to everyone else's Ali. For instance, if I told you that somebody squandered a baseball game in which they...
... you would have to guess "The Red Sox," right?
- stranded 7 runners in the 11th thru 13th innings, including an astounding five in scoring position, highlighted by a 5-2 double-play with the bases loaded and no outs;
- weaseled out of three innings where the opposing team had the winning run on third base with less than two outs;
- lost a potential go-ahead run when the other team's shortstop made a miraculous game-saving catch and nearly broke his face on a seat in the third row;
- lost the game when Ruben Sierra, Miguel Cairo and John Flaherty combined on back-to-back-to-back hits with two outs
-- Bill Simmons, ESPN the Magazine
Yes actually, you would.
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Copyright 2004, by Kevin Featherly
